The Wall
by Grazia D
Summary: Sam Leaps into the body of a young East German border guard soon after the Berlin Wall is constructed.
1. Chapter 1

"Sam."

_His sense of hearing was always the first to return. If there was one constant in Quantum Leaping, that was it. It was comforting in its own way, knowing something was going to happen and it was always going to happen. _

"Sam."

_It was voice he recognized. Nearly drowned out by the sound of Bobby Holly singing…singing what? _

"Press the brake, Sam."

_No. Not Bobby Holly. Buddy Holly. The voice was all but concealed by sound of Buddy Holly singing about how that'd be the day he die loud enough to cause his ears to ring. Wait, was that really just ringing in his ears? _

"Sam, press the brake!"

_Al. And he sounded terrified._

_The brake?_

"_That'll be the day when you say good-bye"_

_He felt the smoothness of the steering wheel in his hand even before he could actually see it. The engine roared as he unconsciously pressed on the accelerator. He heard Al scream "No, the other brake, Sam!" as the car hurdled over a pothole in the dusty road. Dark bangs fell in front of his eyes as the car shimmied violently beneath him. It suddenly registered that his host body was much too small for the car he navigated. Those eyes couldn't make out anything further than the hood in front of him. The top of his head just barely reached the top of the steering wheel currently clutched tightly with tiny fingers. _

"_You give me all your lovin' and your ta-urtle-dovin'…"_

"The brake, Sam, dammit, the brake!"

_With effort—still not used to the body in which he now dwelled—he pressed a small foot, soon joined by the other, down on the brake pedal. The steering wheel shuttered in his hands, the brake pedal pulsated beneath his feet, and the tires skidded across the dusty terrain. His heart pounded (something in Al's voice had caused that) as the car continued for another five seconds—he had silently ticked off the agonizing moments in his mind. The car finally came to rest, slightly cocked toward the left._

_A smile hinted on his host's lips just as a sudden gust of wind rocked the car violently. "'Cause that'll be the da-ay-ay…"Buddy Holly was cut short by a short burst of static. Eyes widened as he watched the train rush past. It wasn't ringing he heard in his ears; it was the sound of the train's whistle as it had approached the crossing. _

_He turned to Al, who had been racing alongside him on his left and let out a chuckle of relief._

"Christ, Sam that was too close."

"Christ, Sam, whydja stop?" _He turned sharply in his seat, confused and pleasantly surprised at the sound of his own name. Much more surprised than when he finally noticed the young boy seated next to him._ "We coulda beat it."

"No, you wouldn't have." _Al countered morosely, even though the freckled boy wouldn't have heard._

_He opened his mouth, as if to relay the message to the young passenger before He—whomever He, or She, or It was--decided to cut his time short._

_He Leaped._


	2. Chapter 2

In what seemed like an instant to Sam Beckett, was actually several minutes, hours, months, and once even a full year to those at Project Quantum Leap. When Sam was in limbo—Al's own term, transition was what Gushie and the like chose to call it—the flesh and blood he left behind lay motionless on a hospital bed in the Waiting Room. All activity in the brain ceased, and for all intents and purposes, Sam was dead. Everything else needed to keep Sam's body "alive" was in just dandy working order, except for his brain. Its one hundred billion neurons lay dormant, ceasing their job of gathering and sending electrochemical signals until the moment Sam Leaped. In the beginning Al wondered where Sam went as his body rested. It soon took its toll and he found it easier to ignore those thoughts and concentrate on the day to day. But it was hard. And it probably wouldn't have been had Sam not made a mess of things around Project Quantum Leap every second he was away.

Sometimes it would just be little things; a chair moved from one side of the room to the other, a different color paint decorating the hallways, a plant where there had never been a plant before. And sometimes it could be big things. Mind you, that happened a lot less often than the little things, but it was still eerie nonetheless. The appearance of Sammie Jo Fuller. The disappearance of the Committee. And probably the most important of all the changes to occur, in Al's opinion anyway, was his relationship with Tina. Sometimes, she'd cease to exist within the confines of Project Quantum Leap. Other times, and this is what killed Al most of all, he step out of the Imaging Chamber to find her no longer with him, but with Gushie. It probably wouldn't matter so much if Al's own memories had changed each time the atmosphere around the Project did. But, that didn't happen. He could remember multiple scenarios for events clearly. He could remember Tina and their vacation to Las Vegas where neither one was clothed for the entire weekend…yet he could also remember attending her wedding to Gushie. That was on the 5th of October. It also happened during the week he and Tina were shacked up in a hotel in Vegas. Well, in his memories, anyway. And as far as he knew, he was the only one who had this set of compound memories. Well, he and Ziggy. He hadn't gathered up the courage to ask anyone else for fear they'd think him crazy.

At first, he was confused. But that quickly melted into anger, but not at the fact his alarm clock was on the left side of his bed instead of the right, or the hallways were a soft blue instead of off white, or the fact the guy who did the plumbing was named Don instead of Frank and he was enlisted in the US Navy instead of the Marine Corps. No, he was angry because of the changes that directly affected his life. What right did Sam Beckett have to go in and change things around anyway? And who the hell gave Time or Fate or God or Whoever the right to allow Sam Beckett to make those changes? That wasn't what Sam signed up for, was it? He didn't create Project Quantum Leap because he wanted to be God's cleaner, had he? No. So why did Whoever feel like he could add a rider to Sam's bill?

Al suddenly felt very alone. When he walked out of the Imaging Chamber after Sam's last Leap, the one that nearly ended with Sam Beckett's soul or whatever inside little Samuel Connor and little Samuel Connor's best friend Norman Goodman splattered by the 12:30 from Davenport to Osceola, Tina had been gone from the Project for nearly two years, transferring to some job within the Pentagon. Before he had stepped into the Chamber, Tina had been sleeping peacefully in his bed. She had been the only one he could truly talk to. He wouldn't share everything with her, of course, but she knew a little bit more about him than anyone currently. And right now he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her about the little boy of about ten with a mop of black hair and a dusting of freckles across his nose. He wanted to tell her how that little boy who shared his name with their very own Dr. Sam Beckett propped himself up with three issues of the Davenport phone book, had the driver's seat pushed all the way forward and still couldn't reach the pedals without the help of a block of wood tied to his shoe. He wanted to tell her about little Sam's best friend who gripped the door handle tightly as he sat ridged in the passenger seat, his face a mix of fear and excitement. He wanted to tell her how pissed he was at Ziggy (who took place of Whoever whenever Al wanted to blame anything that went wrong only because Ziggy was at least something he sort of understood and she was _here_) for not telling Al where Sam was immediately. Tina could remind him Ziggy had told him in record time what Sam's job had been and that he had less than a minute to make it happen before Dr. Beckett perished. She could, but she wouldn't. She wouldn't because he didn't want that.

What he wanted to tell her, but never would, was the terror he felt as the seconds ticked by and little Sam sat bewildered, the block of wood tied to his foot still pressed firmly on the accelerator. He wouldn't tell her he was certain he would be too late and that would be Sam's last Leap, it was all over for him, good night folks, Elvis has left the building. He wanted to, but he wouldn't. Maybe he'd tell Sam all about it if he came home.

No, not if, he argued. When. When Sam came home. Whoever couldn't let him float out there forever, now could he?

Of course it can, a dark part of Al's mind insisted. You think there is a God who gives a damn about Sam Beckett? No. If there was, he wouldn't be saddled with that cruel double standard. You know the one. The one where he can't directly or indirectly affect those important in his life. Nope, only strangers. Strangers who didn't know Sam Beckett from Adam and had no idea the impact he made on their lives. And who's to say things continued on all hunky dory? Human beings are infallible and rarely changed. Maybe everything was all for nothing. Then what?

Al pushed the thoughts from his mind. He was used to them; they arrived usually after every Leap, especially if the Leap was a stressful one. And calling that last one stressful was an understatement.

He finally reached his room, a small one bedroom, just off the elevator, three floors down from the Control Room. It wasn't much, just a small living area, a bedroom and a bathroom that connected to a five by five area the Project designers called a kitchen. It was in fact nothing more than a small refrigerator that stood about waist high, a sink and a small bit of counter top that had barely enough room to house a coffee maker. Most of the eating was done in the Project mess hall, so the fridge usually remained empty, aside from a few bottles of water. The counter was clear and the sink sparkled, untouched. This morning, before he had stepped into the Imaging Chamber, the fridge held a small box of left over cheesecake (Tina's) and five cans of Diet Coke (also Tina's). A small fishbowl had been on the counter where a fat and lazy beta fish (again, Tina's) floated among the plastic seaweed and a No Fishing sign. He briefly wondered if the fish now lived atop her countertop in Washington.

He loosened the tie around his neck, a rather bright shade of orange, as he crossed the living area that was just wide enough to house a respectable sized television set, a loveseat with matching recliner and a small glass coffee table, furnishings that matched each and every room within the Project unless you were low enough on the totem pole to have the unfortunate luck of sharing your living area with another low ranking Project member, then you got two matching recliners and no loveseat. He then made a left toward the bathroom (going right would take you into the bedroom where you either got a queen sized bed, a dresser with an attached mirror, a matching table with a clock radio and a small walk-in closet, or two twin beds, two tables with clock radios, and two closets at opposite ends of the room). Once he made it into the bathroom (where every one looked identical no matter what room you were stuck in) he shed the tie and matching vest, allowing them to drop to the floor and lie undisturbed, before running a bath. He unbuttoned his shirt, this one lime colored with shiny silver buttons, and let it fall with the vest and tie. He tested the water and made sure it was warm enough before shedding the rest of his clothing and settling in. The water felt inviting and tranquil and he allowed himself a few moments to lean back and enjoy the sound of the nothingness that surrounded him. At least, until Ziggy interrupted that calm.

"Admiral Calavicci" she cooed. That was really the only way to describe it. She cooed. And she only cooed when she had news that the recipient would find annoying. Sam used to argue the supercomputer did not have the capability to recognize human emotion, thus would not be able to enjoy annoying the members of the Project. Well, Sam was wrong. That damned computer understood human emotion quite well and seemed to get a kick out of annoying the shit out of Al.

Al ignored the serene voice, wishing if he could just ignore it, it would go away; knowing if he did ignore it, she would just get louder.

"Admiral Calavicci." Ziggy repeated, his title a little more stressed this time because she was getting angry he was ignoring her. And she knew it was purposefully. Don't ask him how he knew she knew it was purposefully, but she knew.

"Admiral!" This time there was an edge to her voice and just a hint of impatience. Al heaved a sigh, more for her benefit than anything, and opened his eyes.

"What do you want, you overgrown microwave?" he asked, his voice calm and barely above a whisper. He smiled at the silence, imagining if Ziggy were in fact a real life, flesh and blood, all American gal, she's be standing with arms crossed tightly across her chest, a hip jutted out defiantly, and a scowl on her face.

"It's Dr. Beckett." Ziggy said, the scowl Al imagined evident in her voice. Sam had also said there was absolutely no way Ziggy could feel happy or sad, angry or calm, feisty or downtrodden. She was a computer, after all. Well, Sam was wrong about that, too.

"What about Sam?" Al asked, his interest piqued.

"He's Leaping."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Obviously I've taken liberty with Al's past and how the Project is laid out. Hopefully I don't offend; I'm just trying to bring a little joy into this dark world. ;)**_

May 7, 1967 was the first time Al Calavicci had stepped onto Vietnamese soil. He and the seven other first-timers, along with a grouchy Master Chief who had been shipped here once before, earning a ticket out early by taking enemy fire in his left ankle but not earning the complete get out of jail free card, were dropped off four miles outside of base, the Air Force Captain piloting not bothering to look at the fresh meat, instead giving reasons for the abrupt drop-off to the tired Chief who only nodded and hitched his pack higher on his shoulder. None of the other eight, including Al, dared ask why they were left in the middle of the jungle, miles outside of relative safety for fear the Master Chief would think he was complaining.

Among the newbies was a fresh faced Third Class who spoke with a slow, deep Southern drawl. He had been with Al since Rota, at first hesitant to talk to the Lieutenant Commander, but once the flood gates had opened all sorts of information about Boatswains Mate Third Class Harrison. The fact he had grown up in some little town in Mississippi whose name currently escaped Al, the youngest of twelve, and had joined the Navy a little over two years ago. He was told he was being shipped out to Vietnam only a week ago and had only told him mom (momma, BM3 Harrison had called her) about his impending trip the day he was scheduled to fly to Rota, Spain from Virginia. In fact, he had called her from the airport, using the last of his paycheck to make the long distance call, because he knew she would be whole heartedly against her youngest, and only boy, going to Vietnam.

And, whoboy, was she ever. Harrison had said his mom (momma) had cried for two whole minutes as he sat on the other end, gnawing on his thumbnail, eyes directed at the ground, feet shuffling nervously, unable to say anything to comfort her. By the time she had calmed down enough to moan a few intelligible words across the telephone wire, the operator interrupted, telling him if he wanted to continue it would only be another three dollars. Not having another three dollars, Harrison had sullenly hung up the phone, brushing away his own tears with the back of his hand. Momma Harrison's interrupted call would end up being the last she ever received from her youngest boy. BM3 Harrison would be struck down in an ambush three weeks later.

But at that time, neither BM3 Harrison nor Lt. Cmdr. Calavicci had any idea what was in store. Instead, they had fallen into an easy repore, which lasted all the way until Harrison's death. And when Al had noticed how white the young Third Class' face had become since the USAF helicopter had departed, he tried to urge him alone with quiet words of encouragement. BM3 Harrison had offered the senior man a smile, or tried to at least, and told him he wasn't scared. No matter what, he wasn't scared. He was proud to be there.

But his face had told different. The large eyes, trying to look at everything at once as if certain death was behind every bush, in every tree, alongside every dirt path. The tint of his skin unnaturally white. The constant licking of dry lips, trying to bring some sort of moisture as the skin cracked, but unable to because the mouth had gone unnaturally dry as well.

The look on Harrison's face that morning in 1967 was mirrored by the kid currently inside the Waiting Room. Twice since Al had made it down to the Control Room, the kid had walked from one end of the Waiting Room to the other, each step hesitant as if the floor might give way beneath him at any moment. Every few moments a shaky hand reached up and raked through his hair. The first time his hand had made it to his scalp, the fingers had frozen just inches from his head, as if expecting something to be atop it. The kid had then lowered his hands to eye level, searching over them as if he had never seen a pair of hands before in his life. That was a pretty good bet seeing as how the kid hadn't been residing in the body stalking around the Waiting Room for more than a few minutes.

When Verbeena Beeks appeared at Al's side, he realized he had been the first one in the Control Room since Ziggy's announcement Sam was Leaping. He had been so engrossed in the kid's movements on the screen mounted just outside the Waiting Room he hadn't noticed Gushie and Tina had yet to appear at their spot at the Control Panel. No, not Tina. She was gone. Jenna. Jenna Somethingorother had replaced her. And if he remembered correctly, Jenna was a hot little number herself but had rebuked Al's advances the moment she joined Project Quantum Leap. He figured it had something to do with the young lady Jenna often vacationed with.

Verbeena watched the kid on the screen with Al for a few moments before walking over to the Waiting Room door. She swiped the badge she wore on a strap around her neck, tucking it into her right hip pants pocket before typing in a four digit pin into the pin pad. The LED above the touch pad switched from red to yellow. The number pad disappeared from the touch screen, replaced by an outline of a hand which vanished after Verbeena laid her left palm atop it. The LED changed from yellow to green and the door to the Waiting Room slid open silently. Al turned his attention back to the screen and watched Verbeena approached the kid, the kid with Sam's face and body but not Sam's soul, her face soft and open. The kid watched her mistrustfully, his arms hanging tensely at his sides.

"I'm Dr. Verbeena Beeks." She began, stopping a few feet shy of the kid. She gave him a smile, the sterile sort you gave a new acquaintance. She didn't offer him a handshake—physical contact with a new Leaper was just too risky—and neither did he. He continued to stare, his eyes dark and suspecting. "Would you like to tell me yours?" The kid's stare faltered when he finally took a good look at Verbeena. Al figured he finally noticed her style of dress and the shiny metallic colored blouse and lighted earrings were not normal wear whenever the kid came from.

"American?" The kid asked, the first two fingers on his left hand picking nervously at the bodysuit he wore.

"Yes." Verbeena answered cautiously.

"Ich spreche kein Englisch." The kid said simply, still nervously picking at his thigh. Verbeena paused for a moment before nodding, holding up one finger in a _hold, please_ gesture. She retraced her steps and repeated the steps she had needed to enter the Waiting Room, a room only four people had access to—Dr. Beeks, Al, the Chief Medical Officer, should the need arise, and Sam himself—and currently there were only three people who could leave that room—Al, the CMO, and Dr. Beeks. Sam's fingerprints had been removed from the system after Sam's Leap just in case the system set in place failed. Some of the hold-overs had tried in futile effort to leave the Waiting Room by placing Sam's palm over the touch screen pad, only to have the light above remain red and the text blinking "Swipe Card Please" blinking brighter.

She only had to take one step outside the Waiting Room, the door sliding shut behind her. Jenna, tall brunette shapely Jenna who did not find Al the least bit desirable much to his chagrin (oh well, her loss anyway), had grabbed something out of a drawer hidden beneath Ziggy's main panel and moved swiftly to the spot next to Al that Verbeena had vacated moments before—he could smell the soft scent of her perfume, a scent maddeningly close to the scent Tina wore—excuse me _had_ worn. Jenna tucked what she had found in the drawer into Verbeena's hand and Verbeena swiftly placed it inside her ear. Al had known immediately what it was—a small transmitter that would allow Ziggy to feed a foreign language to whomever wore it. It would first come across in the wearer's native tongue and then translated so the wearer would know exactly what he or she was saying. It would also allow Ziggy, who heard and recorded everything said and did in the Waiting Room, to translate whatever the hold-over was saying. During that time, the transcript would not only be stored in a file within Ziggy's massive memory bank, but also printed out and attached to the monthly reports compiled by the Projects head Research Officer, flown to the Nation's Capital, and filed in some vault within the Pentagon.

Verbeena re-entered the Waiting Room, repeating what she had previously said, only this time in German. The kid had boasted himself onto the table placed in the center of the Waiting Room, the one whose top slid off to reveal a mirror beneath if needed. It was only during the most drastic times the hold-overs were allowed to see their reflection—Sam's reflection-in the mirror. The less shock, the better.

Verbeena repeated her question—_Wie heist du_?—and this time the kid quietly answered.

"Emil Trommler. Wo bin ich?" Where am I, Ziggy translated in her ear, followed quickly by "That's not important right now—Das ist nich wichtig, jetzt—Where do you come from—Wo kommst du her.

"Bin ich in Amerika? Wie bin ich hierer gekommen?" Emil asked, ignoring Verbeena. As Verbeena began to calmly repeat her questions, Al turned away. He looked up at Ziggy, or rather the orb that hung above the Control Panel which in his mind served as Ziggy's "face", knowing she could see the impatient expression, in fact she was recording it right now, as was protocol any and every time someone entered the Control Room.

"Well?" He finally asked, patting the breast pocket of his shirt in search of a cigar and after finding none allowing his hand to fall to his side.

"Yes, Admiral?" Ziggy cooed. Al rolled his eyes but forced his voice to remain steady when he spoke again.

"Tell me what I need to know so I can get out there to Sam." Al waved a hand distractedly toward the Imaging Chamber.

"I'm afraid it's not going to be that easy, Admiral." Ziggy answered her voice as sweet as honey and mildly taunting.

"Why the hell not?" Ziggy sighed, yes that overgrown computer did sigh because she felt the same things anyone else around the Project felt. Happiness, Sadness, Anger, Boredom (which she relieved once by adding an extra zero to everyone at the Project's paycheck, thus leading to a shortage of available bodies since anyone that could took off on vacation to spend their windfall, and a legion of angry workers when they learned Uncle Sam wanted their money back) and this time that all dreaded Annoyance (those were the times Ziggy decided she was going to do just whatever the hell she felt like doing).

"I have nearly unlimited access to everything the United States government records as well as access to what is referred to as "friendly nations", although that is limited. However, the United States failed to have friendly relations with many in Europe for quite some time, in fact the climate between the United States and Russia is still considerably cold,"

"Ziggy, I don't want the history lesson." Al snapped, again patting his breast pocket, remembering there was nothing there, and dropping his hand back down again.

"Al, what Ziggy is saying is searching through records in Germany, where she would most likely begin since the man who Sam has Leaped into speaks nothing but German, but of course he could be from Austria or Switzerland…" Gushie paused briefly when Al's fiery gaze landed on him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued. "Searching archive records for Emil Trommler is going to be a bit of a time consumer, and then with Ziggy computing as to why Sam is actually there, well, that might take a bit longer, too."

Al tossed one final glance at Verbeena and the kid, the kid was noticeably calmer now that he had been, before turning to walk out of the Control Room. He didn't say anything, and thankfully neither did Gushie, Jenna (with the butt that looked so damn hot when she wore heels) or Ziggy.


	4. Chapter 4

August 17th, 1962

"_Trommler_!"

The smooth feel of the steering wheel had been replaced by something that weighed heavily in his hands. The air had an acrid smell to it, almost like rotting eggs. Somewhere, everywhere, people were screaming.

"_Trommler_!"

One scream cut through the rest, a cry of pain. The voice pleaded, thick with tears and panic, in a language he thought he should know, in fact, probably did, and maybe it would come back to him once he figured out just what the hell was going on.

"_Gott verdammt, Emil! Kommen hier_!" Something, someone, grabbed a hold of Sam's arm and tugged, forcing him to follow along, closer to the thick, pleading voice. Sam's legs wouldn't cooperate; he didn't want to go to the pleading voice. He stumbled and nearly dropped whatever was in his hand. "_Scheisse, Emil. Reiss dich zusammen. Wir haben viel zu tun_."

"What?" The man who was leading Sam along stopped short, causing Sam to bump into him. He stared at Sam for what seemed like a long while, and uncomfortably long while, before grabbing a hold of the rifle Sam gripped tightly and pointing the muzzle away, toward the loudest of the screaming. The thick, pleading voice had quieted for a few, blissful moments.

"I would watch your speech around here." The man whispered, still in the language Sam couldn't place. The words translated easily in Sam's head; as if this was the language he had spoken his entire life. "Stand here!" He ordered loudly. "Shoot anyone else who tries to leave."

Sam stood, confused, his head swimming, his eyes slowly adjusting. As they did, he glanced over himself quickly. He was wearing a uniform, dark and itchy, boots polished to a high gloss shine. Some sort of hat sat perched atop his head. A canteen hung from his belt. And then there was that rifle in his hands. Recently fired, if the smell in the air was any indication.

Sam glanced back over at the man who had been his first interaction. His gaze was fixated toward the west, his own rifle pulled snug against his shoulder. Sam mimicked the posture and concentrated on the scene in front of him. The yelling and screaming had quieted, the silence eerie. Sam stared out at the faces in front of him, hundreds of them, each etched with their own brand of fear, hate or disgust. And each focused on something off to Sam's right. Toward the pleading voice that had started up only moments ago.

"Please!" The voice cried, softly now, weak. Sam's gaze fell on the owner of the voice, a body atop the wall, the wall that kept the sea of onlookers separated from Sam and the rest of the identically clad guards. The body cried, soft tears that could be easily heard over the maddening silence. The body then, too, fell silent, his damp breathing slow and sporadic. Instinctively, Sam shouldered the rifle and took off in a dash, unsure how he was going to get to the dying body. The wall was entirely too high to just climb it, and there were no ladders Sam could see. Add to that, the barbed wire lining both sides of the wall, and the feat seemed damn near impossible. Damn near, but maybe not quite. Please, God, let it be not quite.

"Emil!" He hadn't heard his fellow guards warning cries, nor did he see each one train their rifle on him, but he did hear the utter panic in his first encounter's voice and the terror in his eyes. That was enough to cause a pause. "What the hell are you doing? Are you stupid or crazy?"

"There is a man dying up there." Sam argued, now fully aware of the dozen rifles aimed at him. "He needs help."

"You need to leave him alone." The man hissed, grabbing a fistful of uniform and pulling Sam closer. "He should have thought about that before he jumped."

"What?"

"You try to help that son of a bitch and you're going to be lying dead right beside him. You know that. Wizen up. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"He's right, Sam." The sudden addition of a familiar voice surprised Sam, causing an involuntary head jerk to the left. Al gave him a sad smile. "Just stand your post and do what he says."

"That man is dying." Sam argued.

"So what?" the man shrugged callously and freed his grip on Sam's uniform. "We've all got to go sometime."

"You're right. And he's going to. And there's nothing you can do to change it." Al turned to look at the body atop the wall, the sadness etching deeper into his face. The body had stopped moving and the cries had died off sometime during the arrival of Al. The guards, no longer concerned with Sam/Emil, turned their attention back to the body, most faces expressionless, although a few did allow some moroseness through. For a moment, no one said anything. Camera lenses shuttered on the other side of the wall. A horn honked in the distance.

All it took was one voice to yell "Murderers!" to get the frenzy started once again. People on the other side of the wall attempted to climb, only to be yanked down by their own armed guards and dragged back into the crowd.

"It's amazing the things people do to one another, isn't it?" Al muttered, shaking his head.

"Al, what the hell is going on here?" Sam hissed.

"August 17th, 1962. The day Peter Fechter died atop the Berlin Wall."

"Who?"

"The man up there." Al said, gesturing to the wall. "18 year old kid who just wanted to get to West Berlin. The first of many who will die trying to make that same escape."

"Was I supposed to save him? I was supposed to save him. Wasn't I?" Sam reached up to run a hand through his hair, remembered the hat, which turned out to be a helmet, and knocked if off his head instead. The helmet's chin strap kept it from falling completely to the ground, instead allowed it to rest just between his shoulder blades.

"No, Sam, you weren't here to save him."

"They let him die, Al. They sat there and watched him die."

"You can't blame these people here, Sam." Al countered. "Each side is terrified of the other and no one had a clue about what to do. If anyone had made it to Peter to help him, they would have been shot, too. Because people are afraid. These guards are afraid."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"You're right."

The chanting on the other side of the wall had increased. Bottles were being thrown at the wall, many making it over but failing to reach their intended targets. The shattered safely more than a foot away, which only seemed to incense the crowd further. Angry screams followed by hostile tears. The word 'Murderer' cried over and over.

"In about an hour, one of the East German border guards will retrieve Peter's body." Al continued. "The crowd will break up shortly after and you can go home." Sam just looked at Al without saying a word. "Trust me, Sam, Peter Fechter is not why you are here."

"Then why am I here?"

"Well, Ziggy hasn't gotten that far yet."

"Of course not."

"But once she does, you will be the first to know. We do know that you are Emil Trommler and you live in East Berlin and today is August 17th, 1962."

"That's it?" Sam asked, his eyes back on the body atop the wall.

"Getting records is going to be difficult. Plus, Emil isn't exactly the most forthcoming person on Earth. But we're working on it, Sam. Trust me."

"I do." Sam reached up and brushed away the sweat that had collected at his brow line. Emil's sandy colored hair had darkened from the moisture, and curled tightly against his head. His lips settled easily into a frown, as if it were the most natural position. Al studied his friend for a few moments longer before pressing a few buttons on the handlink, activating the Imaging Chamber door.

"I'm going to see if Ziggy's found out anything more." Sam didn't hear him.


	5. Chapter 5

_Time seemed to creep by the rest of my-Emil's-shift. For an hour after Peter Fetcher took his last breath, no one moved. Guards on both sides of the line too scared, too confused to figure out what to do. My attempt at approach had been the last made toward Peter; there was no doubt in anyone's mind if anyone tried to move the boy's body without the official order, they would be gunned down just as callously as Peter. My actions had proved that. _

_Finally, amid the silence, two men appeared from behind me and wordlessly dragged Peter Fetcher's body away. People cried out in anger once more, throwing bottles, paper, whatever they happened to have in their hand at the time. We were ordered back to work and the rest of the afternoon was filled with hourly marches up and down the wire barrier that separated a city in Germany I never would have been able to remember if it were not for Al's remark. _

_My companion during these patrols was the same man who had warned me against helping Peter Fetcher. He wore no name on his uniform; come to think about it, no one with whom I had come in contact with did, but I had overheard another guard call him Schreiber not long after I had been ordered to stand and shoot anyone else who tried to climb over the Wall. Schreiber remained quiet during the rest of the afternoon, only looking at me directly once; a look filled with what I could only describe as disdain. _

It was a quarter to seven when Schreiber was approached by two guards, fresh faced and seemingly unaffected, or unknowing, of the day's events. Schreiber gave a brief pass down, not appearing to care Sam stayed silent and closer to his side than was necessary. Following lead, Sam handed his rifle over to what he gathered was his relief and proceeded to stay stuck to Schreiber's side. He knew it probably wasn't the best action given the circumstances nor the environment, but even hours after his Leap in—and no return visit from Al—Sam was still lost and confused and he latched on to the one person he felt he could. Schreiber and Emil might not have been friends, but Schreiber certainly had saved Emil—him—from certain death and that counted for something. Especially after it finally dawned on him just how close he had come to a nasty end.

It wasn't long before Schreiber noticed Sam was still at his side. He stopped and opened his mouth as if to speak, glanced around his surroundings and thought better of it. He turned on his heel and continued on, with Sam not far behind.

Sam followed Schreiber into a detached building a few hundred feet away from where their shift ended. Schreiber was welcomed by a few hellos, which silenced once Sam stepped through the threshold. Looks, similar to the one Schreiber had bestowed upon him earlier in the day, were shot Sam's way and it wasn't until he passed did the talk resume.

Schreiber had led him to a row of lockers, small and weathered. There were no locks on the lockers and stood only about waist high. He stood awkwardly, watching Schreiber. The man, tall and imposing, bent down and reached into one of the lockers on the top row. He hung his head and sighed, glancing up at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you have a problem?" he asked, slamming the locker shut and pulling himself to his full height, which was nearly a half a foot taller than Sam's stature. He didn't wait for an answer, instead tucked what he had pulled from the locker into a pocket and pushed past Sam, failing to return the goodbyes as he rushed out the door. Sam stood uncomfortably a few beats longer before deciding to scan the rows of lockers, in hope that was something Emil did after every shift. Emil's locker, the stencilled 'l' in Trommler nearly faded away, was part of the bottom row, the last locker on the left. He pulled it open, found only a set of keys, and noiselessly allowed it to shut before retracing his steps and entering back into the sunshine. Sam stopped just outside the threshold as it suddenly dawned on him he had no idea where to go from here. He silently cursed Al and noticing the stares from a few on-duty guards; he turned and headed north for no other reason that it seemed like a good way to go. He ducked behind the building, away from the stares, and felt a hand wrap around his arm tightly. He looked up in surprise and Schreiber pulled him close, his thick fingers digging through the uniform jacket, the fabric a little too heavy for the summer sun, he wore and constricting tight.

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?" Schreiber hissed, his face close enough Sam could smell the faint scent of alcohol on his breath.

"No." Was all Sam could think of replying, realizing just how silly it sounded even before the words passed through his lips. Schreiber, taken aback but only briefly, loosened his grip and stepped back.

"Have you forgotten half the people we work with are Stasi, then? Because I can't figure out why you've been acting the way you have. Don't think for a moment your name hasn't made it back to whoever and a file has been started on you. That shit you pulled today…" Schreiber shook his head and released Sam's arm. "What were you thinking?"

"Well, I was thinking there was a man dying up there." Schreiber snorted.

"He was a _defector_," Schreiber hissed, his face twisted as if the word tasted sour upon his tongue.

"He was just a kid." Sam said quietly, causing Schreiber to laugh.

"You're just a kid. I'm just a kid. We're all just kids." Schreiber turned on his heel and began to walk away, stopping when he noticed Sam was not following. "Are you going to go home or are you going to stand there all day?" Sam caught up to Schreiber, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, suddenly feeling very cold in spite of the strong evening sun. "Take my friendly suggestion. Pull your head out of your ass and maybe there's still a chance you won't end up missing in a few months."

They had reached a bus stop, the benches long gone but the sign remained, even if worse for wear. The bus arrived nearly thirty minutes later, filled beyond capacity. Sam allowed the larger man in first, which allowed Sam to cut through the crowd rather easily. He found a spot with which he was content and rode along in silence, his mind replaying the day's events. He wished Al would show up. He couldn't remember a time when he felt so terribly alone and out of place. Not to mention he had no idea which stop was Emil's, nor did he have a clue about where he lived. Most of all, though, he needed to vent. He needed someone who would listen and understand.

It was another hour until Sam felt a jab at his side. It was Schreiber, looking at him with an air of contempt Sam had begun to expect.

"You going to get off?"

"Uh, yeah." This time it was Sam's turn to lead the way, but with fewer people, the trek to the front of the bus was nearly as easy as the trek to the back.

The neighbourhood was dark and quiet, save a few scattered barks from across the road. Few cars lined the street, few houses were lit. Sam began to walk, choosing north again since it seemed to work out so well last time.

"You don't live that way." Schreiber's voice caused Sam to jump. He hadn't realized the man had exited the bus with him.

"Yeah, I know, I was just…" Just what? Sam couldn't think of an excuse so he let his voice die and fell in step beside the hulking German. Silence enveloped them once more as they walked south, away from the rows of tiny, uninviting homes and toward a section of large rows of apartments. Sam looked up at one set as they passed. They didn't look any more inviting.

Schreiber crossed the street without bothering to look for traffic; what was the point, curfew was in effect Sam would later realize and the only people on the street would be Stasi and Volkspolizei. The VP would be busying themselves in a better part of town and the Stasi would be doing their work secretly, if they were even in the neighbourhood at all.

Sam followed, wondering when the man would snap at him again, but as long the words were something to the effect of "you live here", he didn't care. He was tired, he was sore—his feet felt to be two sizes larger than the shoes that housed them—and he wanted to be off the street. It made him nervous. He wondered if that the Emil part of his brain, the part left behind after the Leap, making him feel as so.

Schreiber came to a stop in front of a set of apartments and turned to look at Sam. The contempt was gone, replaced by a soft look of concern. Sam wondered if Schreiber and Emil were actual friends. "Get some sleep. Don't act like this tomorrow. I'll meet you down here at five." Schreiber turned and ducked into the entry door, its heavy steel door creaking on its hinges, and disappeared. Again Sam was alone and again he felt awkward and out of place. He scanned the surrounding building with mounting dread before an idea struck him. He dug into the pockets of the uniform, pulling out three coins, a wayward button and several safety pins before finding his wallet—Emil's wallet—in the front breast pocket of the uniform jacket. He yanked open the wallet, wondering why he hadn't thought of it before, and scanned its contents for a driver's licence, or anything that might tell him where Emil Trommler lived.

Inside he found a five dollar mark, a few scraps of paper, none with anything remotely looking like an address written on it, and a black and white picture of an unsmiling young woman. He patted his pockets again, certain he was missing something—if memory served him correctly, walking around East Germany without proof of identity was not exactly advised—and finally found what he was looking for; a small, dark blue booklet, about the same size as a passport, tucked into a hidden pocket deep inside his jacket. He flipped it open, finding a laminated card inside with the basics of Emil Trommler. Sam skimmed over the contents, the words foreign, yet familiar at the same time, caring for only one thing. Emil's address was printed on the back, just to the right of Emil's eye color—brown.

The building number was 14523. The room number was 34. Sam found Emil's apartment with relative ease; it was located just three buildings down from Schreiber's. The front door opened with little difficulty, much quieter than the door to Schreiber's.

The keys he found in Trommler's locker fit into the lock of apartment 34. Sam entered and closed the door quickly behind him without bothering to turn on a light. Instead he stood, the weight of the day sitting heavily on his shoulders. He heard the door to the Imaging Chamber open and shut and smiled. He really needed a friend.

"How you doing, Sam?" Al's voice in the darkness calmed his nerves.

"I've had better days." Sam answered. His eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, scanned the room. There wasn't much there and he was willing to bet it didn't look any less sad when illuminated. Sam reached over and switched on a desk lamp. He was right.

He stripped off his uniform jacket, then the shirt beneath and tossed them onto the couch. He took a seat on the arm and looked up at Al, who was dressed more subdued than Sam could remember.

"You're gonna need that tomorrow." Al gestured toward the discarded uniform items. "I hear its inspection day."

"I'll hang them up before I go to bed. Has Ziggy figured out what I'm here to do?" Sam reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The small throbbing that had been ever present since his Leap in had begun to turn into a full blown migraine.

"Well, she has an idea."

"An idea" Sam parroted weakly.

"You can imagine what digging up information on East German border guards is like." Al paused to take a puff from his cigar. "The kid you Leaped into, Emil Trommler, seems like a good enough guy. He was born in Erfurt, Germany in 1942. His father was a police officer, his mother died when he was ten. Only child. Joined the Grenztruppen just out of high school." Another pause. Another puff. When Al didn't continue, Sam looked up at him, his impatience showing.

"That's it?"

"No. There's more. Not much more, but there's more. Ziggy came across a cemetery record for Emil Trommler, date of birth matching yours—Emil's. Date of death is a week from today." Sam didn't speak, instead content with staring at Al, his face a mixture of horror and weariness. "Ziggy's not a hundred percent sure, but there was a tiny blurb in a West German paper about an East German guard who tried to escape and was shot dead by another guard on the same date Emil Trommler died. That's probably why you're here. Maybe."

"Maybe." God, he was tired. Inspection day be damned, he was ready to curl up right there on the couch, atop the uniform shirt.

"Listen, I promise you Ziggy's doing the best she can. And once we find out more, you'll be the first to know." Sam snorted and stood, grabbing his clothes from the couch as he did so in one swift movement. He was suddenly too tired to sit and talk anymore, even though there was so much he wanted to unload on Al. it would have to wait, he decided, walking toward the back of the apartment and down a hallway, certain he would find a bedroom somewhere back there. He heard the Imaging Chamber door open and shut once again. Al was gone. Back home. What year was it there now? What year was it when he left? He couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember where "home" actually was anymore. Somewhere in the desert, he was sure. But that was about it.

He found the bedroom easily; it was only one of two other rooms in the apartment. The sight of the bed rejoiced him and he forgot all about inspection day. He dropped the garments in his hands and crawled into bed. The world slipped into nothingness mere minutes after his head hit the pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

Light wormed its way into his brain, invading a scene belonging to Emil, players familiar to his host but foreign to Sam. He heard a female voice_ Emil? Warum sind Sie noch schlafen?-Why are you still sleeping?_ In the distance, cutting through the light. He was gradually aware his bladder was full and his left arm had fallen asleep.

"Emil?" He was no longer asleep. He blinked against the light. The bedroom, just large enough for a twin bed and a wardrobe, was bright, brighter than necessary it seemed to Sam. A woman stood in the doorway, in her arms a uniform identical to the one Sam had left last night crumpled in various places around Emil's apartment.

Sam groaned and struggled to sit up. The woman, similar to the photograph in Emil's wallet, maybe even an exact match, walked over to the wardrobe in two strides, her ginger hair bouncing against her shoulders.

"Didn't you remember inspection today?" she asked, opening the right side of the wardrobe with one hand and placing the uniform inside with the other. "Erich said you were acting strange yesterday." Her voice strained and stilted. She glanced over at him, a question in her eyes that remained unasked. "You should already be out of bed, Emil. You have to be out front in less than a half hour. I'll cook you something quick to eat. Have you made a lunch?" The last question was asked as she exited the room, her voice already fading as she added a tiny 'probably not'. Sam stared at the space the woman had once occupied. He was aware he should get out of bed, but his body was still exhausted from yesterday and the fact sleep had come late and was often light, he just wasn't too excited about facing another day. He still didn't know anything and no one seemed to be willing to help the man along.

Sam finally mustered the energy to push the blankets away from his body and pull himself out of bed. A knee popped in protest as Sam took his first few steps. He grabbed the uniform from the wardrobe as he passed and ducked into the bathroom at the end of the hall. He could hear the woman as she readied his breakfast, and assumedly his lunch, down at the other end of the apartment.

The bathroom door closed behind him with a heavy click. He was aware at how stressed he felt, how uneasy. His stomach was still knotted tightly and he was certain he wouldn't want breakfast or lunch later on in the day. He would eat because if he didn't things would feel much worse, but he wished he didn't have to. In fact, he wished he could sit right here in this bathroom for the rest of the Leap.

He ran a bath and took a look in the mirror above the sink as the tub filled. Emil Trommler stood just about Sam's height (or what he figured was his height; lately he couldn't remember simple things like how tall he was or how much he weighed or even what color his eyes were). If he had to guess, he figured Emil was at least thirty pounds lighter than Sam. Emil was young and looked it; Sam doubted he would even need to shave this morning, but he would anyway just in case. The last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to Emil Trommler. Atop his head laid a mess of blonde curls and his eyes were a dull grey color. His featured were soft, his nose a bit too round and large for his face and his chin ended in a rounded point. Nothing similar to the woman down the hall. Her features were sharp, her eyes a bright blue. Al had said Emil was devoid of siblings, but perhaps a cousin?

A knock at the door startled Sam and he looked away from his reflection sheepishly, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

"Breakfast is on the table. And your lunch is ready to go. You have twenty minutes, Emil." Sam opened his mouth to give a reply but couldn't think of anything so he closed it once again. He quickly bathed and shaved. After he pulled on his uniform, he figured he still had a few moments to spare. When he exited the bathroom, the apartment was once again empty. Breakfast consisted of a scrambled egg and toast. His stomach rolled at the thought of eating so he set the plate into the sink. He would take care of it when he got home. He grabbed the lunch bag just in case he felt hungry and stepped out of the apartment, nearly running face first into Al. He forgot momentarily Al was a hologram and jumped back before he made contact.

"Al!" he cried out, annoyed and elated at the same time.

Al studied the man in front of him, taking a critical eye to each detail of the outfit in which he wore. "Your gig line, Sam."

"My _what_?"

"Gig line." Al repeated, as if Sam just hadn't heard the phrase instead of not understanding it. "Your buckle." He motioned with a cigar clenched hand. "It needs to be in line with your buttons, Sam." Sam glanced down and back up at Al.

"It is."

"No, it's not. Your shirt, buckle and fly should all align to make a straight line down the center of your body. The middle of your buckle right there," another wave of the cigar, "needs to line right up with the buttons, Sam. And then those need to line up with your fly. And you better check because I know for a fact your bosses will be."

Sam pulled his jacket of the dull brown uniform down so that it rested tighter against his body and made the adjustments. It wasn't until Al was satisfied did the hologram step aside and allow him to move from his spot by the door. It never once occurred to Sam he could have walked through Al at any time.

"Has Ziggy figured out why I'm here?" Sam asked, the time forgotten as he paused at the top of the hallway stairs to talk to Al.

"It took a lot of work; I don't think Gushie got a wink of sleep last night. When I left him, he was still going over hundreds of records by hand."

"By hand? What about Ziggy?"

"Oh, don't get me started. She was insulted when she thought I was blaming her for that last Leap, which I guess I sort of was…"

"Last Leap?" Al paused and thought about filling in the blanks in Sam's mind with a play by play of the two little boys versus the speeding train before deciding better of it. The knowledge of previous Leaps was best lost to Time or whatever.

"Never mind. Anyway, Ziggy decided to stop helping right after I left you last. She's refusing to talk to anyone but Beeks and then only in Sumerian. Beeks has no idea what the hell she's saying but when she ignores that hunk of metal you decided you give a brain, Ziggy shuts down completely. So now Gushie's going over records by hand. Earlier today, we had to go to the library to do a search. You believe that?" Sam thought maybe he could but he was too busy trying to remember who Gushie was and what his purpose at Project Quantum Leap actually was. He remembered his face clear enough, and the fact he suffered from Halitosis, which his girlfriend, Tina, didn't seem to mind.

"So, this is what we've figured out so far." Al glanced down at the handlink for answers, forgetting temporarily about the Ziggy temper tantrum he had just described. The hologram heaved a sigh and tucked the handlink into the pocket of his pants. "There's record of an Emil Trommler dying August 21st, 1962, which is three days from now."

"What?" Sam was suddenly alarmed. The idea of sitting in Emil's bathroom for the rest of the Leap was beginning to look better and better. "How?"

"An escape attempt. During your, I mean Emil's, shift, he attempts to escape to West Berlin with an Elke Schreiber. They never make it. They're both shot down by border guards."

"Who's Elke Schreiber?"

"Your guess is as good as mine?"

"Wait, there was a woman in my apartment this morning, Al."

"A woman?" Eyebrows raised.

"And I think Schreiber is the name of the man who helped me out yesterday."

"So maybe you're dating the guy's sister." As his voice trailed off, Al's eyes suddenly widened. "Sam! Schreiber. Erich Schreiber! In '97, two men were brought up on charges for the death of Peter Fetcher, the kid who was killed yesterday. One of them was an Erich Schreiber. There were three gunman who were brought up, but one of them had already died. You think that's the same Schreiber?" Al spoke excitedly, thrilled at the information he had retained from the quick scans he had done yesterday. It felt much more satisfying recalling information from things you've actually read as opposed to remembering through a web search.

"There has to be many Erich Schreiber's in East Germany who happen to be border guards." Sam said quietly. He remembered the smell of gunpowder. The smell had attacked his nostrils moments after his Leap. He was sure the smell had come from his rifle. But maybe it had come from the man next to him. The man in which he found solace, even if it was a familiar face in a sea of strangers. The man who had steered him home after warning him against the dangers of acting out of sorts. The man Sam had figured was a close friend of Emil's.

"Did you find any information about Elke and Emil's death other than they were shot trying to escape?" Sam asked, finding it difficult to find his voice.

"Like what?"

"Like who did it? Who shot them? Why it failed? _Why they were trying to escape in the first place_?"

"Sam, I can tell you why they were trying to escape. All they wanted from freedom from the Communist oppressed East. Many people died for that want."

"_Emill_!" The hushed, yet stern tone caused both Al and Sam to startle. Sam glanced down the U shaped stairway where Schreiber was staring up at him, anger in his dark eyes. "Let's go, we're going to miss the bus."

"Uh, Sam, I'll talk to you later. I'll talk to Emil and find out more about the elusive Elke and angry boy down there." Sam heard the door to the Imaging Chamber whoosh shut as he trotted down the stairs, taking two at a time.

"Sorry." He offered humbly when he joined Schreiber at the bottom of the stair case. He received only a harsh glare in return before the large German stalked out the door the complex, Sam hustling close behind.


End file.
